Somebody Else's Daughter
by xoxoemily
Summary: Santana never wanted a baby until it was almost too late. Oneshot.


**So I wrote a little one shot a couple of months ago called "Somebody Else's Daughter" and this is a rewrite of it, because I wasnt really satisfied with the other one. Plot bunnies just invaded my mind and was like ADD THIS! CHANGE THIS! I dont know if I even like this more than the original, but please read and let me know.**

* * *

Santana Lopez stares at Quinn Fabray's swollen stomach from across the choir room. She isn't mad at her best frenemy for sleeping with her boyfriend-not-boyfriend, although she should be. Seriously. Girl code, bitch. No, she is staring at Quinn's abdomen in disgust. She scoffs and throws her head back.

She sees the way people stare at Quinn with pity. That look that says "Oh, you poor thing. Who would have thought it would be you?" Santana doesn't wish she was Quinn for a second. Quinn can have Puck, the top spot on the Cheerios, the solo in the song they're rehearsing for Glee Club, because Santana knows she'll always be better than Quinn just because her own flat abdomen doesn't have a pitiful little fetus living inside of it. She swallows her birth control pill in one waterless gulp and decides she'll never be Quinn Fabray.

Right then and there, Santana Lopez promises herself she'll never allow herself to be pregnant.

* * *

They come in waves. Babies, she means. The first wave happened in high school, in the days of Quinn Fabray. Every teenage girl that got pregnant? Old news. Now it is time for the second wave. Her friends have been popping babies out left and right, results of drunken one night stands and/or sheer stupidity.

Santana is 25 now and she still doesn't see what the big freaking deal is. They're just babies, for God's sake. She hopes it won't be like this forever. Oh, little Bobby did the cutest thing yesterday or little Jimmy said 'mama' the other night. If she hears another story about how little Susie-Q started crawling on the kitchen floor, she'll tear her own hair out. Well, what did you expect? Flight?

Stretch marks? No thanks.

* * *

She is 30 now and she still feels no need to become a mother. She wonders if there is something wrong with her. Isn't it natural or something to want to be a mother? Some cosmic destiny? Nah.

* * *

A few more years pass and she is strolling down the cereal aisle at the grocery store when it happens. One minute she is reaching out for her favorite box of Honey Nut Cheerios, and the next she is uncontrollably crying next to Tony the Tiger. The little girl sitting in the shopping cart next to her had said, "Mommy. Look! I see a family. Behind that lady right there, the one standing by herself."

She of course, is the lonely lady. Until now, she's never really thought of herself as lonely. She has Puck and a fast-paced career and house with a white picket fence, after all. She has everything you would think she needs. But now it feels like she's been hit with a sudden realization, an epiphany of sorts. Like in college when she realized she'd wasted her entire high school life between the sheets. How could she have missed this? It feels like she's been deceived, the wind knocked out of her.

Santana Lopez Puckerman wanting a baby? No fucking way.

Oh, yes way.

* * *

Unexplained infertility. What the fuck does that even mean? She paid $5000 to hear that? There is nothing wrong with either of them, that the doctor is sure of. The doctor suggests they have more sex. Is he serious? In fact, it's almost funny. This is Puck and Santana they're talking about. They are the epitome of sex. Maybe there is something wrong with the both of them, together.

"It's okay. Santana, we'll keep trying," Puck tells her, stroking her arm gently. But his own solemn face is a dead giveaway for his own disappointment.

It's not okay. Doesn't he understand trying isn't good enough? Trying isn't working. It's not going to cut it.

She wants to know why everyone she knows can have a baby, but not her. More than anything, she wants one for herself. Santana wants some answers.

So the doctor gives her some. He suggests a surrogate, but they automatically toss out that option. They don't have any friends that would be willing to do that and Santana sure as hell isn't going to let some other woman carry their child. He suggests in-vitro fertilization. It's expensive and risky, but worth a shot. Her husband turns it down, saying they'd like to try on their own for a little bit longer, because you know, they have hope and stuff.

* * *

She is sitting on a bench in some park, watching her niece swing back and forth. Puck asked her to watch her for a bit, because he and his sister need to visit their Ma at the nursing home. He promised he'd be back as soon as he could. He knows she doesn't like doing things like this. Spending time with other people's children, that is.

It feels like she's betraying herself. She loves her niece though. How could you not love a curly haired six-year-old who thinks you are the best thing since color changing Barbies? But still. It hurts so damn much.

"Hey, Aunt Santana? Can we go get some ice cream?" asks the daughter that is not hers.

"Of course, sweetheart," she replies just as sweetly.

And so, she walks away with somebody else's daughter.

* * *

Three days later, she sells her beloved Christian Louboutin collection on eBay and he starts to take the bus to work. And finally, they call their doctor to set up their first in-vitro fertilization session. It has nothing to do with the fact that they've given up, of course.

They're on their way.

* * *

After the void in her uterus, it is the looks of pity she despises most. The ones that burn through her skin and straight to her heart. How ironic. The looks of pity she once gave struggling mothers are the same looks she gets on a daily basis. The worst are the ones that come from her family and friends. They claim they aren't giving her any looks and Santana's just being paranoid, but Santana knows better. They can't help themselves.

Her mother. Her look is a look of disappointment. She'd been pregnant five times and had four children by the time she was forty. How is it that the most fertile housewife in Lima, Ohio is the mother of the most infertile? Santana knows she doesn't meet her mother's standards. That hurts.

Her mother-in-law. Her look is a look of regret. Every time she comes over, she studies Santana's belly for the tiniest hint of a bump. When she's done examining it with excruciating detail, having found no signs of grandchildren, again, she gives Santana her look. A look that says, "I wish my son married a woman who would give him some legitimate children." Like she's not good enough, not worthy. That hurts more.

Her husband. His look is a look of accusation. He's gotten a girl pregnant before and reversed his vasectomy, so that means there must be something wrong with her. She doesn't blame him. He's right. That hurts most.

* * *

Then it finally happens. She's done it. She feels invincible; he's over the moon. They're going to have a little boy soon! They're almost…too happy.

But it was doomed from the start.

When the doctor tells her that her baby has severe osteogenesis imperfecta, she blocks it out because she has no idea what any of that means. When the doctor tells her that her baby has extremely fragile and brittle bones that will need extremely cautious care for the rest of his life, she ignores it because she believes that unconditional love will get her through anything. When the doctor tells her that he highly recommends she terminates the pregnancy because it's going to be a lifetime's worth of living in fear of potentially fatal falls, she loses it. She's shaking and heaving and sobbing and doing all sorts of uncharacteristic things that makes the doctor uncomfortable. She's worked too hard for this, and it's not like she doesn't already live in fear.

But when Puck thanks the doctor for his "valuable opinion" and tells him they'll think about it, she's back to frozen again. Her husband is the first to mention the idea while they're approaching the parking lot.

"We can't have a special needs baby, Santana, we just can't," he says gravely.

"Can't or won't? Please, Puck. We can do it. We can't give up now! This could be our one chance at happiness!" she begs. He doesn't know whether or not he should be happy that Santana doesn't understand the gravity of the situation. It breaks his heart to know that he has to be the one to explain it to her.

"Aren't we already happy? You know I want a baby with you more than anything, but I'm not going to do that to our son. Santana, you and I both know we don't have the money, resources, or patience even to do this; we never will. And it would be just cruel to set a kid up for a lifetime's worth of suffering. He won't be able to play tag or ride a bike or do normal kid stuff because he might fall. And it won't just be a scraped knee, San. It'll be ten broken bones and months of recovery and pain. What kind of parents would we be then?" he demands. She doesn't say anything, and he knows that she understands now. Perhaps all along, she knew he was right.

He sets up the appointment for her a week later, and they drive to the clinic knowing this could very well be the last time they'll ever be pregnant. The procedure is relatively short. She knows it's the right thing to do, but goddamn, she wanted that baby more than she'd ever wanted anything. It feels like she's giving up, even if it is the most selfless thing she's ever done. When it's over, her husband asks her how she feels.

"Like we just killed our baby," she says darkly. No one can argue with her.

Sometimes love isn't enough.

* * *

They are in bed preparing for another night's worth of mild insomnia and all-too-real worries. He is reading the newspaper because sometimes it's reassuring to hear about people who are more messed up than you, as terrible as that sounds. And she is pretending to read one of those self-help books while drinking a fertility-enhancing brew she found at the health foods store. The air around them is calm, recycling body heat between the two lovers.

"Do you ever think about him?" she asks quietly, without looking up from her book. She is referring to their first "baby." The one they chose to give up, out of love.

"Do you?" He knows exactly who she's talking about, if you can even consider it a "who."

"All the time" Neither of them completely regrets their decision, because it was the right thing to do, but that doesn't mean it still doesn't hurts like hell.

He leaves it at that and they continue reading.

This is their pillow talk.

* * *

They revert back to having a baby naturally because well, A) they're practically broke, and B) the whole in-vitro fertilization shebang didn't exactly work out too well. They're back to basics. If they can't get pregnant…well…she doesn't really want to think about that right now. Her mind's already gone through every worst-case scenario.

Anyways, this is it.

* * *

They are sitting up in bed when she feels the familiar sensation from deep inside her. She sits perfectly still as it makes its way through her, then burst out of her. Her husband must have noticed she's stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped living, because she's sure a little bit of her has died inside. Again.

"Hey. What's wrong?" he says with genuine concern, shifting his to face hers. She stares straight ahead, emotionless.

"I just got my period," she whispers, still staring.

"Oh. Baby…" he says. She flinches ever-so-slightly at the term of endearment.

"It's fine. We're going to keep trying and stuff and it's not your fault-" he rambles. He can't think of anything to say that will make her feel better, because the only thing that will make her feel better he apparently can't give her.

"Just stop it okay," she lashes. She's numb again.

"Hey, what is going on?" he asks, starting to feel his blood boil a little. All Santana can ever think about is babies these days. They come home. Go through the motions and have sex. And repeat. Over and over again. It's been like this for the last couple of years. They are a house of matches. They'll either burst into flames or crumble under pressure. Maybe both.

"Why don't you just leave me? Just man up and do it. I know you want to. Why am I still here?" she asks harshly.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" he asks.

"Do you know what I go through every day? I feel like such a fucking failure because I can't get pregnant. And when I can, something fucks it up! I can't give you what we want. I can't show how much I love you because there's something wrong with me and you don't deserve it! And I am so scared, all the god damned time, that you're going to realize it and just leave!" Santana yells, her voice faltering.

"Are you serious? Do you seriously think I would leave you because of that? Do you think I'm that kind of person? Jesus Christ, Santana, I love you, baby or not," Puck says, his eyes revealing a mix of hurt and anger. He expects her to come back with a spitting comment, but instead she deflates.

"No no no, I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm just so damn frustrated. Why can't we have one? God, I see them everywhere, and it makes me so…so…" Santana can't find the word for it and she's crying too hard to care. She is so vulnerable.

"I know, come here," he says as he wraps his arm around his shaking wife. He's never seen her so defeated, so fragile. He's afraid she's going to shatter if she goes through this again. "Stay strong, San. Have faith."

"No, I'm done. I can't fucking do this anymore. I'm done. I can't get my hopes up then just when I think everything is going fine, it all goes away. I can't do this anymore," she repeats herself over and over, her eyes dark.

"Okay," he responds quietly. He takes in her declaration, and he understands. Silence. Then the ice begins to thaw a little bit.

"We don't need to be pregnant to have a baby, you know? We can adopt or something…" he suggests.

"Okay," Santana sniffles.

But they don't need to, because that night they make their very first healthy baby. Out of love, and not obligation.

* * *

Her name is Mira. Because she is just short of a miracle. She's only a couple of days old, but she carries in her little body three years worth of her parents' pain, sorrow, regret; but love, faith, and perseverance too. And that's okay. Because she's here now, and that's all that really matters.

To her father, she is a second chance.

To her mother, she is something that her mother can call her own.

She's Santana Lopez and Noah Puckerman's daughter.

Nobody else's.

* * *

**DONEEEEE! Please review, honestly. Let me know if you think this was better than the original, or worse, and why. Tell me your favorite parts. Or just say hi. Please review. **

**Happy Holidays to all!  
**


End file.
